


Taking the Steps

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, general lack of action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft climbs a staircase while pondering a particularly difficult problem, one he cannot solve alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking the Steps

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously set after Watson meets Mycroft in The Greek Interpreter, but how much afterwards is up to you. No major spoilers for any of the canon stories.

Seventeen steps can present a tiresome obstacle to a man of my bulk. I freely admit it. I am, however, rather more physically able than my mass and demeanor might suggest. On this day, the steps were not the difficulty, but the daunting knowledge of what I would face at their summit.

I climbed them anyway, hoping all the while that what I could offer somehow would be enough. Memory kept pace with me as I climbed each step, hand in hand with my fears.

_What would I find?_

The memory of the first time I deliberately faced this challenge with a barely-six-year-old Sherlock, his grey eyes wide and shining with confusion and pain.

_Will he even be there?_

I shook my head with annoyance of the thought. If I knew my brother at all – and in this if nothing else, I felt certain that I did – of course he was there. He wouldn’t be anywhere else, not in these circumstances.

_What state will he be in?_

A number of likely possibilities suggested themselves to my brain, the three most obvious appearing in my mind’s eye with the next three steps. None of them were good. I dismissed the speculation; it was pointless. I would know soon enough.

_Will I be able to reach him?_

The memory surfaced of the second time I faced this challenge, my brother just a few years older than the previous encounter. He had turned the tables that time. I had thought he needed me. As it happened, I had needed him even more. I could still remember the feeling of Sherlock’s spindly arms (thin, always so thin) wrapping around me, his inky curls tickling my nose as I burrowed into him and the floodgates opened wide.

_Will I be able to help him?_

Another memory, this time of the young-adult Sherlock, all teenaged gangly limbs and exuberance and heartbreak. I had been able to help him then, as infatuation and young love had turned to ashes.

I winced as yet another memory emerged, this one involving as much speculation as actual observation, and I nearly tripped on the thirteenth step. I had not been able to help him the next time, whenever and whatever that had been. That years-old thought remained gall and wormwood on my tongue. Thanks to our very natures, my brother and I have very few secrets from each other, but _something_ had happened to him his final year in University. I was not paying much attention to Sherlock at the time, absorbed in establishing my own career. I missed the signs – and there _were_ signs. One letter in particular should have sent me straight to his side. If I had only paid attention, not just seen but observed…but I did not. By the time I realized something was wrong, it was too late. Too much time had passed; evidence was gone, facts lost to time, leaving only vague memories and rumors, muddled traces that could not help me understand. Leaving me a suddenly-distant brother who had found his comfort in morphine instead of me.

_I was too late then. Am I too late now?_

I refused to believe so. More current memories replaced the old, of Sherlock in recent years, bright, confident, the master of his chosen field as I was of mine. He was still too thin – always too thin – preternaturally pale, and careless of his health, but keen and sharp as a razor-blade. He was the scourge of the criminal classes, a trusted ally of much of Scotland Yard, my brother in keeping our country and our citizens safe as much as he was my brother in blood. He had come so far from that shattered wreck who scarcely acknowledged my existence…

_Yes, but will your help be enough?_

Sadly, I knew that the answer to that question was unfortunately outside of my control. It rested in another’s hands. I reached the top step knowing that all I could do was try, and that all my efforts would not be enough, could not be enough, if the Fates willed otherwise. My help could only go so far.

I opened the door to the sitting-room. I had not been here often, but every detail was familiar, much as I remembered it from description as well as personal observation. The room was empty, as I expected, an untouched meal tray on the table, the fire dying in the grate. I shook my head and moved quietly to the bedroom door. I did not bother to knock, but merely turned the handle and went in.

The curtains were drawn, the gas lit but turned down to a dull glow. Nonetheless, my eyes immediately found my brother in the gloom. Even though I had prepared myself, knowing what I was likely to see, I was still hard-pressed to suppress a gasp of dismay. Sherlock looked… _horrible_ was too mild a term. The unshaven jaws, the limp, disordered hair, the dark-circled eyes, the ghastly pallor, the much-bitten, cracked lips, the disheveled clothing; the combined effect was that of a man already halfway to madness or the grave.

In summation, he looked only marginally better than the pale, still figure in the bed. Sherlock sat in a chair pulled directly alongside the bedframe, close enough so that my brother could lightly cradle one limp, half-bandaged hand between his own trembling fingers.

Sherlock hadn’t turned to look at me as I came in the door. He gave no sign that he knew I was there at all. All his attention remained fixed on Doctor Watson, on his drawn, lax features, on the slight rise and fall of his chest that was the only obvious sign that the man still lived. Under other circumstances, under _normal_ circumstances, I would never believe such inattention in my brother was real, but rather pretense or even a subtle insult. However, I well knew that these circumstances were far from normal. I moved quietly for a man my size, but deliberately, giving ample notice to my brother’s keen ears of my approach, if only his mind chose to notice it. There was still no reaction, not even when I moved into arm’s reach. I blinked and swallowed, my throat growing tight.

“Sherlock,” I called as gently as I could, and reached down to place one hand on my brother’s shoulder. As I did so, I remembered all the other touches like this, my hand coming to rest in comfort and support on the child’s shoulder, on the youth’s, on the young man’s. A simple touch.

Sherlock’s head came up sharply. He dropped the hand he held as he twisted to stare at me. Others might have been fooled by the utter lack of expression on his features, but I knew him far too well. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, speaking of too many hours spent sleepless, but the pupils were normal, not blown out or shrunken pinpricks from his infernal drugs. His sleeplessness had another cause. In those grey irises so very like my own, I could plainly read all the fear and soul-deep misery he kept from showing on his face. My breath caught in my throat.

“Oh, brother mine,” I whispered. I pulled him upwards even as he staggered out of his chair. As I had done a few times before, I gathered him into my arms and held him close. In turn, he grabbed onto my coat and hid his face against my chest as he’d done as a small child. I could feel him trembling, shaking with exhaustion and the emotion he could not otherwise express.

I held him for a long time. Long enough for his breathing to even out from its initial hitching. Long enough for his trembling to ease and calm as I ran one hand gently over his back, over and over and over. At last I heard a tiny sigh, and Sherlock’s grip on my lapels eased.

“No change, then?” I asked softly, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock shook his head, and when he spoke, his hoarse, rasping voice was muffled by my chest. “None.”

“The doctors did say it might take some time,” I reminded him.

Sherlock huffed impatiently and pulled back. I let him go, my arms falling to my sides as my younger brother raked one hand through the tangled mess of his black hair. His pale face showed marks where he had pressed it against my chest, but his dry eyes were fractionally calmer than they had been when I’d entered the room. And if the upper portion of my waistcoat felt a bit damp now, I would never mention it. “That was over a day ago,” Sherlock snapped. “And you know as well as I do that the doctors don’t really have any idea if – “ He broke off with a pained hiss.

There was no point in lying. There never was, with us. “I know,” I told him gently. And I did know. Doctor Watson’s injuries shouldn’t have kept him unconscious this long. The devil’s brew of chemicals that had been forced into his body, however… There hadn’t been enough evidence left – or witnesses in a state to talk – to know exactly what they’d given him, or how to counteract the effects. Even Sherlock’s formidable skills in chemical analysis could only do so much with few drops of residue he’d discovered. The only possible remedy was time and the Doctor’s own stubborn will to survive. “He’s still alive, Sherlock. If the mixture was fatal, he would have perished by now. You know this.”

Sherlock’s eyes met mine. “I also know that every hour that passes where he doesn’t regain consciousness increases the likelihood that he never will.” His voice was bleak, flat, almost clinical. It didn’t fool me in the slightest.

“A chance is not certainty,” I told him sternly. “And the Doctor will _certainly_ be alarmed and unduly upset when he wakes and sees you in this condition.” I gestured broadly, indicating with one sweep of my hand the whole of Sherlock’s wretched appearance. “You look a fright, brother mine.”

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “That hardly matters. I’m fine. And Watson has seen me look far worse than this.”

His dismissive words would have been more convincing if he hadn’t reeled slightly on his feet. “I’m sure the Doctor has,” I said dryly. “But that is not the point. We cannot know what state Doctor Watson will be in when he wakes. We must be ready to help him in any way that he might need. And as you are now, Sherlock, you cannot help him as much as he might require.”

“I – ”

It was something to see my normally loquacious brother at such a loss for words. Under other circumstances I might have found it amusing. “You need rest, Sherlock, and sustenance – and a change of linen would do you no harm, either.” I raised a hand, cutting off my brother’s indignant reply. “Your Doctor would tell you the same, if he were able. For his sake, Sherlock, you have to break your fast and then allow yourself to sleep for a few hours, in a proper bed and not dozing fitfully in an armchair. You must be in a fit state to help him when he needs you.”

My brother’s shoulders drooped. He recognized the logic of my arguments, I was certain of it. However, I have rarely seen him look so openly torn. “But – ”

I sighed. Clearly, more direct measures were called for. “I will sit with him while you rest, Sherlock. I give you my word that I will watch over him. I will not stir from that chair until you return, unless it is to call you back to his side.” Seeing him still resistant, I steeled myself and said the words I knew my brother needed to hear, however uncomfortable I found them. “I will not let him leave you.”

Sherlock stared at me, wide-eyed, stunned into stillness. A shudder passed through his frame, and he shut his eyes briefly. When he re-opened them, they glittered like silver pools in the dim light from the gas. “I – yes. You are right as always, Mycroft. I will lie down for an hour.”

“Three,” I retorted, unspeakably glad that Sherlock had not said anything more emotional. My feelings were far too close to the surface as it was. “And in the Doctor’s bed, mind you, not on the settee in the sitting-room. I’m sure he won’t mind, seeing as he is currently occupying yours.”

Sherlock’s single sharp bark of laughter startled me, and I wondered briefly if events had pushed my brother over the brink and into hysteria. However, he looked if anything rather more collected than earlier. A trace of color had returned to his cheeks. “Very well. Watson’s bed it is. As for whether I rest there for a single hour or for three – that I will leave to the whims of Morpheus. But if anything changes, anything at all – ”

“I will call you at once,” I assured him. “Loudly, if I must.”

“Your slightest call will rouse me,” Sherlock demurred. “You will not need to shout.”

I believed it, as much as I would have preferred to hope otherwise. I doubted Sherlock’s troubled mind would allow him the deep sleep his body so desperately craved, but any rest would be better than none.

Sherlock glanced at me, then swiftly leaned over the bed. I looked away, granting my brother privacy as he murmured something in the Doctor’s ear, too softly for me to catch. It took just a moment. I only looked back when I heard my brother straightening the bedclothes, tucking them even more firmly around his friend’s unconscious form. He fidgeted there long enough that I thought I might have to say something more to get him to move. At last he stepped away and turned towards the door.

“Mycroft?” he murmured as he paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

I swallowed, hearing all the things we had lost the ability to say to each other in those two soft, heartfelt words. “Make sure you eat some of the cold supper Mrs. Hudson left on the sitting-room table before you retire,” I replied.

I heard a soft sound, something like a snort, but Sherlock had his back to me and I could not be sure. He left the room, shutting the door quietly but firmly behind him.

I turned up the gas, feeling the need for any kind of brightness to help dispel the gloom in the chamber. The chair by the bed did not look terribly comfortable, but it did appear sturdy enough. I settled my body into it carefully, and sighed with relief when it proved better cushioned than it had appeared. I sat there quietly, my eyes on the Doctor’s pallid features, a portion of my attention fixed on his breathing, but my most of my mind preoccupied with tracking my brother’s progress. I listened to the sounds, piecing them together into a clear mental picture of his actions. I smiled slightly as I heard the tell-tale chime of a dish-cover being lifted by an unsteady hand. I frowned at the lack of clatter from silverware or plate. A long period of quiet, where he might or might not be eating a few mouthfuls. Finally I heard him walk to the Doctor’s bedroom. I listened to the door open and close, and knew myself alone with the Doctor at last.

I returned my full attention to the man lying in my brother’s bed. The improved lighting did Dr. Watson’s appearance no favors. His unshaven, waxen face looked far more appropriate to a corpse than any living man’s should.

And that was simply not acceptable.

“Hello again, Doctor Watson.” I kept my voice low. I had no wish to be overheard, particularly when indulging in so farfetched an activity as a conversation with an unconscious man in the obscure hope that he might somehow hear me. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I really must speak a few words to you. More than a few, if I am honest.”

Nervously, I tapped the armrest of the chair with one hand. That would never do. I laced my fingers together in order to still them. Why was this so difficult? My words were undoubtedly falling on drug-deafened ears.

“You know, of course, that my brother and I share similar powers of observation. What you might or might not know – I do not know what Sherlock has told you about me – is that we use our powers rather differently. Sherlock deduces in a narrow sphere. My deductions and observations range rather more widely. I see what is, and from that, I can often extrapolate what _might be_ , on a much larger scale.”

My admittedly grandiloquent-sounding claim caused no reaction from Doctor Watson. Even so, I hastened to clarify. “I do not make any claims to clairvoyance, of course. It is merely the observation of pattern, the stringing together of a quantity of seemingly unrelated facts into a greater tapestry, from which one can infer certain logical outcomes. And so I will tell you something that I have seen, something which I believe you have already intuited on your own: _London needs Sherlock._ Indeed, it’s not too much of an exaggeration for me to say that _England_ needs Sherlock.” I cleared my throat uneasily, unwilling to elaborate. Aside from all of the political, criminal, and sociological reasons our country needed my brother, I knew very much how much _I_ needed him, and how much England needs me. I am not a modest man. And while I have long foreseen that Sherlock’s reckless choice of career and occasionally appalling personal habits make his premature passing more likely than not, I have not yet learned to face the idea of his loss with any equanimity. I forced my mind away from the thought and made myself continue. “But England needs not just any Sherlock, Doctor, but the man you have helped him become. _That_ is the man we need. And, Doctor Watson, that man cannot and will not exist in the future, not unless you are by his side.”

I stopped, struck once again by how unlikely it was, that such a chance-met, ordinary-seeming man could have had such a profound effect and wrought such extraordinary changes in my brother. Of course I knew that there was much more to Doctor Watson than he showed on the surface. He was certainly nothing like the credulous, inconsequential cipher he portrayed himself as in his little stories, except in terms of his absolute loyalty to Sherlock Holmes. That was the one unshakable bit of truth in all his tales, however fanciful (or not) the rest of his plots. And in turn, the man now lying so still and wan under the coverlet was _everything_ to my brother: friend, partner, confidant, “biographer,” protector, and a myriad of other things. I might not be able to see all these things in Doctor Watson, but I certainly saw the reflection of them in my brother’s behavior.

“Do you know how important you are to him, Doctor Watson?” I asked softly, watching him closely, hoping for any sign that he might hear me. (And dreading it too, for I doubted I could find the courage to say a word of this to anyone truly sensate.) Unfortunately for my hopes, there were no traces of awareness. “I dearly hope that you do, although I rather doubt it. But truly, you must have some idea, even if it is the palest shadow of the reality of his regard. Believe me when I say to you that you are of the utmost importance to him.”

I leaned even closer to the bed, lowering my voice while infusing it with every bit of intensity I could muster. “I implore you, Doctor Watson, as a soldier and a patriot and most importantly, as his dearest friend – _hurry back_. Fight. Do whatever you must, but only return to him, as soon as ever you can. Sherlock needs you.”

I saw no reaction, but no matter; I had said everything I needed to say. I sat back into my chair and settled down to my vigil. My words were undoubtedly a pittance in the balance, a trifle compared to what Sherlock himself must have already said to his friend, but I felt better for having added them all the same. Now all I could do was wait, watch, count the remaining hours of the night, and hope for joy in the morning.

And, thankfully, there was.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Originally posted January 13, 2011


End file.
